It Takes Two
by Dizzo
Summary: A collection of unrelated one shots of our favourite brothers relying on each other; I will add to as the muse takes me.
1. Broken

IT TAKES TWO

A collection of unrelated one shots of our favourite brothers relying on each other; I will add to as the muse takes me.

Disclaimer: Don't own them, and this proves that life just isn't fair.

Chapter 1. Broken

Sometimes it's not the physical injuries that hurt the most.

xxxxx

Fumbling blindly in the dark, Sam became increasingly agitated as he tried to unlock the motel room door. He wasn't sure if it was the darkness or his shaking hand that made such a simple job so damned difficult, and he really didn't care. He simply sagged with relief as the key slid home and the door swung open with a grinding squeak.

"C'mon dude," he whispered into the damp, spiky scalp pressed against his cheek, not expecting a response and receiving only a muffled grunt for his trouble.

Stumbing through the room, his barely conscious brother half-leaning, half-carried alongside him, Sam headed through into the bathroom and paused to carefully sit Dean down on the closed toilet seat. He cursed the moment that he had allowed his brother to talk him into setting foot in the local bar. That skeevy dive had had trouble written all over it; not the usual 'oh, this is awkward' sort of trouble, but the 'two psycho rednecks down a dark alleyway' sort of trouble.

Kneeling down in front of Dean, he made of point of staring straight up into the unfocussed eyes which gazed back at him from under rapidly closing lids, mismatched pupils adding to the general air of disorientation. "Y'gonna be okay while I go an' close the door?, he whispered.

Dean nodded slowly, "y-yeah," he grunted breathlessly, his voice slurring over a foamy trickle of blood that escaped his lips, "th-thanks S'mmy.".

xxxxx

Suppressing a deep breath, Dean groaned as he pressed a warm facecloth against his reddening battered ribs, and leaned weakly against the wall as Sam began to clean up the blood around his snuffling, smashed nose, softly rinsing the matted, drying bloodstains around his cheekbone and jaw.

Sam swore beneath his breath as he tried without success to find an undamaged spot to hold Dean's face still, wanting so much to rain down the agonies of hell on the bastards who did this. He muttered soft and meaningless reassurances as he worked, the water in the sink turning a faint pink as he rinsed the facecloth again and again.

He felt sick as the process gradually uncovered the vicious damage to his brother's handsome face, broken and brutalised beyond recognition.

"Sorry, bro'," he whispered, taking Dean's clenched hand and ghosting his thumb over the grazed knuckles.

xxxxx

Sam may have been undamaged, but he was still in unbearable pain.

He knew Dean had taken this beating willingly to stop those assholes going after him.

xxxxx

end

,


	2. A Helping Hand

A HELPING HAND

Dean's new diagnosis means learning some new skills, difficult ones.

xxxxx

Sam folds his arms and leans on the bathroom doorframe, shaking his head in concerned amusement as he watches Dean sitting on the bed. He's been there a good five minutes now.

"D'y wanna hand?" he asks quietly.

"Kiss my ass."

Dean huffs sourly and shuffles round so that his back is turned to pitying onlookers.

"Take that as a no then."

Sam watches his brother's chest shudder and swell around a deep, hesitant sigh, as his shoulders brace in determination.

His hand slowly lifts the hem of his T shirt.

Dean pauses, feeling Sam's sympathetic eyes boring into the back of his head. "Sam, haven't you got anything better to be doing?"

He hears a heavy sigh, as Sam turns and pads barefoot into the bathroom to brush his teeth.

He emerges a few minutes later to find his brother still sitting on the bed, still hunched over clutching the hem of his T shirt, his shoulders still set in single-minded determination. Sam can't see it but he just knows the tip of Dean's tongue will be poking out between his lips, slightly to the left, in fierce concentration.

Dean's trembling slightly when suddenly the shoulders slump weakly in frustrated defeat.

Sam smiles sadly; walks slowly over to the bed and settles down beside his brother, a gentle bumping of shoulders to let him know he's there. Dean stares into space as Sam gently wrestles the syringe out from between his white-knuckled fingers.

Dean doesn't even have time to turn his head away as Sam slips the syringe quickly, smoothly and without fuss into the soft fleshy skin on his flank.

A flinch.

"Sonofa …" Dean looks up at Sam, wide-eyed; face glistening with nervous perspiration.

"Didn't hurt," he grunts casually.

Sam grins, "course it didn't; does Sammy's little soldier want a lollipop?"

Rearranging his T shirt and his remaining dignity, Dean glares; "make the coffee, bitch …"

"No sugar!"

xxxxx

end


	3. Charley Horse

CHARLEY HORSE

A little bit of Dean!pain to commemorate something that happened to me one night a couple of weeks back and woke my husband ... the neighbours ... and probably the whole bloody village if I'm honest!

Warnings for a little bit of Dean's colourful language.

Disclaimer: I don't own them, so I'm just going to pretend, okay?

xxxxx

It had been a hard, miserable hunt.

The thoroughly nasty piece of work spirit had taken the threat of it's imminent demise most ingraciously, leaving the Winchesters battered, bruised and exhausted. Job done, they had eventually limped back to their depressing bile-coloured room via an equally depressing diner, both brothers ready to fall asleep standing up.

Despite his crushing fatigue; Dean, mud-caked and filthy, had insisted on having a shower before he laid down his weary head. As he disappeared into the bathroom, the last thing Sam remembered was the gurgling hiss of the ancient plumbing as it rattled to life.

Somewhat cleaner than his brother, due to the fact that Dean had taken the brunt of the spirit's ire, Sam was happy to fall into bed grubby and stinking. He would enjoy his well-earned shower in the morning; anyway, by then the hot water would be replenished. He just KNEW Dean would use it all; he had that bloody-minded 'screw your baby brother' grin all over his jaded face.

The musty grey pillow with the indeterminate green stain on the edge of it cradled Sam's head like comforting arms and sleep took him swiftly and without question.

He didn't even remember Dean stumbling damp-haired out of the bathroom and flopping limply into his own bed with a blissful sigh.

xxxxx

AAAAAUUUURRRRGGGHHHH!

Sam's eyes snapped open on hearing the agonised cry, and he tumbled out of bed, staring in panic across the room half expecting to see Dean being eaten by a rabid ghoul.

Instead, he squinted through the darkness and his swimming, sleep-muzzed vision gradually made out the disturbing image of his brother, legs akimbo, writhing in agony on the bed amidst a tangle of sheets and kicked-off comforter.

"Oh crap c-c-crap crap oh balls balls B-BALLS …. GAAAUUUHHRRGHH!"

As Sam scrambled across the room, he could see the grotesquely knotted calf muscle in Dean's bare leg telling him all he needed to know.

"'kay bro', I'm coming," he mumbled through a yawn, ducking timidly to avoid a flying heel across the bridge of his nose. Groping through the darkness, he eventually managing to grab Dean's flailing foot at the third attempt and braced it against his chest.

At the enforced stretch in his abused calf, Dean's pained howls rose dramatically in volume, pitch and obscenity.

"OOOOOOOH C-CRAPPIN' ASSB-BUTT … FRIG-FRIGGIN' ASSDICKS DOUCHEBALLS … GAHHHHH SAM H-HELP ME … FAH-FAH-FUDGIN' HURTS …"

Sam blinked, and glanced at the clock.

2.00 am.

He was too tired for this kind of crap!

Yawning again, he lurched backwards and forwards, wrestling the thrashing limb as he kneaded the rock hard knot and reflected wistfully that the last time he cradled someone's foot to his chest and massaged their leg, the foot was small, delicate and beautifully pedicured and the slender, shapely leg was neither musclebound, scarred, nobbly or hairy.

Dean arched and recoiled beneath Sam's patient touch; his pain-crazed howls subsiding into gasping sobs punctuated by the occasional grunted expletive. A pitiful sight, his fringe clung limply to his sweat slicked brow as he panted harshly, crimson-flushed cheeks puffing out with each forced gasp.

Sam tried very hard to ignore a sudden, fleeting and highly disturbing visual of his brother giving birth.

Eventually, he felt Dean relax with a shuddering sigh, the knot in his calf slowly dispersing as the muscle slackened.

"Better?"

Dean nodded breathlessly, hiding his tear stained eyes beneath his raised forearm.

"I keep tellin' you to drink more water and eat less salt," scolded Sam.

Dean's limp hand coiled into a fist and showed his brother a raised finger to demonstrate exactly what he thought of that suggestion.

Sam rolled his eyes; "don't mention it …jerk," he snorted dryly, carefully placing Dean's trembling leg back down on the bare mattress. Gathering the scattered bedclothes off the floor, he deposited them in a heap on top of his motionless brother, before trudging back across the room to his own bed.

Laying back, he relaxed as his pounding heart gradually slowed and sleep once again gathered him into it's comforting arms.

xxxxx

AAAAARRRRGGGHHHH … FR-FREAKIN' CRAPBAGS! NOT AGAIN …

Sam rolled over with a groan, and looked at the clock.

3.00 am.

Oh man, it was going to be a long, long night!

xxxxx

end


	4. Putting it off

PUTTING IT OFF

The boys return from a hard and damaging hunt. Dean needs some help; he doesn't want it.

xxxxx

"Dean, how long you gonna be in there?" Sam yelled irritably at the locked bathroom door.

The response was an agitated snort; "keep your friggin' hair o …" the words snapped into a grunted hiss of pain.

'Just taking a leak' Dean had said; since when did 'just taking a leak' take fifteen goddamn minutes?

When you're trying to do it with one arm, that's when.

When you're delaying an unpleasant inevitable, that's when.

Eventually, after Sam had paced up and down huffing impatiently, examined the blossoming bruise on his cheekbone, changed his socks and brewed a cup of coffee, there came a protracted fumbling with the bolt which heralded a hesitant opening of the bathroom door.

Dean stood in the doorway, partially silhouetted against the stark lighting behind him.

Listing pitifully to starboard, his pale face was beaded with sweat, his right arm cradled protectively against his chest.

Sam put his mug down on the table beside him.

"C'mon dude, sooner we do this, sooner it's over."

Dean gave a shuddering sigh and trudged grumpily across to sit on the chair that Sam was gesturing to. As he began to lower his rump into it he hesitated, rising again; "Uh, I'll just make m'self a coffee.

Standing behind him, Sam pushed him back down into the chair.

"Dean, quit stallin'; do you want me to reset that dislocated shoulder or not?"

Dean bristled "stow your naggin' bitch, I'm not stallin'."

Yeah, snorted Sam, that's why you've been locked in the bathroom for half an hour.

Dean spun round to glare at his brother over the back of the chair, letting out an involuntary yelp of pain in the process; "you try havin' a leak when you've only got one workin' hand …" he snorted, voice heavy with insulted indignation.

Sam shook his head with an exasperated smile, grasping Dean by his uninjured shoulder and ignoring the flinch that resulted.

"Okay man?"

There was a barely perceptible nod, followed by a laboured swelling of the chest around a deep, shuddering breath.

"Right, lets do this."

Sam brought his hand across to rest flat on the back of Dean's injured shoulder, cringing as he felt the defined ridge caused by the displaced joint.

Dean winced and tried to shrink away from the touch.

"Dean …"

"Well, friggin' get on with it," Dean snapped, wiping his brow with his good hand.

"I will, if you'd just keep still."

Dean muttered assorted expletives under a deep breath as his jaw clenched resolutely.

Sam's hand wormed it's way up under the arm clamped across Dean's chest and his hand balled into a fist, pressing up, deep into Dean's armpit.

Another flinch.

"Dean …for Heaven's sake!"

"Jus' do it …"

"Ready?"

"YES!"

Sam braced and leaned into Dean's back; "one…"

Dean took another deep breath; "I hate you so much."

"Sure you do … two …" Sam smiled, flat hand pressing hard against Dean's sweat dampened T shirt.

Dean clenched his teeth waiting for three.

Sam jerked, thrusting his fist up into the hot, clammy nook under Dean's arm, and punched the joint back into the socket with a sickening crunch.

The violence with which Dean's head snapped back, eyes squeezed closed, yawning a gaping howl which was either silent or beyond the range of human hearing shocked even Sam, who stumbled backwards with a start.

Lurching forward, Dean looked for all the world like he was about to recycle everything he'd eaten in the last week, before the convulsing heaves levelled into harsh panting breaths.

By the time Dean opened his eyes, blinking back a haze of tears, Sam was kneeling on the floor in front of him.

"Okay dude?"

He was answered with a nod. "Yeah, thanks ... I think."

Dean sat up and timidly massaged the offending joint, experimentally wiggling the fingers of his right hand.

A mug of coffee appeared in front of him and he took it with muttered thanks, shakily wiping his tearing eyes with the heel of his free hand.

"Wasn't so bad …" he grumbled as he took in a long, comforting sip of the hot drink.

Sam grinned; "'course it wasn't Dean!"

xxxxx

end


	5. Outside the Box

OUTSIDE THE BOX

Sam's good at thinking 'outside the box'. This isn't always a good thing.

xxxxx

The 'flu had come on frighteningly quickly.

This morning, Dean had been fine; well, fine if you took into account the headache that he was clearly nursing. Bless him - he still hadn't worked out that Sam could read the sneaky squinting, brow wrinkling and temple-kneading like an open book.

You know, for a smart guy, Dean really was a bit slow on the uptake sometimes.

But it wasn't all bad; he had wolfed down an oil-slick of a breakfast like a man starved, so Sam just pretended he hadn't seen the two aspirins slip down with Dean's second coffee.

xxxxx

That had been the last time they saw any signs of civilisation as the Impala sailed through mile after achingly dull mile of featureless agricultural landscape with her increasingly sickening driver slumping lower and lower over the steering wheel, viewing a blurring, swimming world through glassy, tired eyes from under leaden lashes.

It was when she skidded over onto the verge with Dean tumbling out of the door as breakfast made a sudden and highly vocal reappearance that Sam, as much out of a sense of self-preservation as a sense of sympathy, felt compelled to take over driving duties.

It was early evening before, to Sam's incalculable relief, the suburbs of a small town began to appear through the Impala's windshield in the fading light; and just a further five minutes before she rolled to a halt into the parking lot of the Sleepeeze motel.

Sam had to shake Dean awake before he could attempt to help him into the room, sucking in a sharp breath when he felt the heat radiating through his brother's jacket.

Dean's breathing had taken on a harsh wheeze, and the glistening flush blossoming across his cheekbones was the last sign that Sam needed to know for sure that they were both in for a rough night.

Xxxxx

Sam decanted Dean into the room's first bed, wrestling him out of his top layer of clothes and guessing that the catsick green walls probably weren't going to help Dean's fragile belly in any way; in fact he reflected how they were making him feel queasy and he wasn't even ill.

He decided to allow his brother to drift off into the healing sleep that he clearly needed, making himself a coffee and having a brief shower before he judged the time had come when Dean's need for medication outweighed his need for sleep.

"Dean;" Sam gently shook his brother awake.

"Nnnnguuuh; wha … g'way;" Dean blinked painfully, watery eyes struggling to focus on Sam's smiling face.

"gonna give you some meds."

Groaning softly, Dean sunk back down into the pillow, huffing out a shuddering breath.

"Dean!" Sam shook a little harder

"C'mon Dean, open up;" Sam carefully slipped a mercury thermometer between Dean's creamily pale lips.

Dean drifted cross-eyed as he tried to focus on the thermometer in his mouth. He looked up hazily at the concerned face hovering over him.

"S-S-ham?" he murmured clumsily around the thermometer.

"What dude?"

"Fou' our 'momter wa' b-roken?"

Sam smiled; fluent in Dean-mumbleze, he understood exactly what his brother was trying to say.

"It was," Sam replied softly; "I managed to get hold of a new one today."

"'Ow?" Dean asked, stifling a cough as he irritably manoeuvred the thermometer with his tongue; "we ain' s-seen a siggle st-hore all day …"

Sam nodded in agreement.

"Yeah, I know; but I saw a vet's truck parked outside one of the cattle barns we drove past, so I parked up the Impala while you were having some shut eye an' I just kinda helped myself while no-one was looking."

"PHUT!"

Dean spat out the thermometer so hard it bounced off the wall.

xxxxx

end


	6. Just a

JUST A ...

Two tiny little words that chill Sam's blood.

xxxxx

Sam knew all too well that when the words 'just a ...' were ever applied to a description of Dean's physical condition, Trouble with a capital 'T' wasn't going to be far behind.

'Just a cold, Sammy...' yep, I remember, that was the 'cold' that turned out to be pneumonia;

'Just a scratch, bitch ...' oh, that's right, the scratch that needed thirty-seven stitches, a month's worth of antibiotics and a rabies shot - yeah, good call bro';

'Just a bug, dude ...' now let me see, oh yeah - salmonella food poisoning from a skanky chicken burger somewhere out west. I was reduced to peeing in the bushes behind the motel because the bathroom was out of commission for four days!

So, when Sam finally managed to wheedle the words 'just a friggin' headache' out of Dean in response to two exasperatingly persistent days of questioning about why all their aspirins had been vanishing and, while we're on the subject, what's with the permanent squint and all the pained forehead kneading; it was a heavy sense of foreboding rather than relief that settled over him.

xxxxx

Sam wasn't sure at first what time it was that he was woken, but he was pretty sure it was some ungodly hour that qualified comfortably as the middle of the night.

He wasn't sure of much as he rubbed his heavy, sleep-muzzed eyes to focus slowly on a shaft of light under the bathroom door, but he soon became aware of the unmistakeably painful sounds of violent retching.

Instantly awake, his mind leapt into action. Dean's being sick; was it something he ate? Come to think of it, he hadn't eaten much over the last couple of days. It hadn't really registered before, but now that Sam thought clearly about it, Dean's last few meals had involved listless sessions of pushing his food unenthusiastically around his plate, citing excuses such as 'already eaten' or 'the fries are cold'.

Dammit Dean, why have you always got to be such a devious bastard?

Swinging his still-sleeping legs over the edge of the bed, Sam tottered, rubbed-kneed across the floor to the bathroom.

"Dude, everything okay?" he asked, timidly tapping on the door, even though the noises coming from within made it patently clear that everything was far from okay.

Sam's antennae twitched wildly, and eventually, ignoring all the brothers' unwritten codes of propriety, he barged into the bathroom to find Dean slumped bonelessly over the toilet bowl heaving and gasping miserably.

xxxxx

The Winchesters' itinerant lifestyle involved eating in many and varied roadside diners; some respectable, some far from it. Many turned out to be the sort of place where each meal came with a complimentary cockroach. This unfortunately meant that the occasional encounter with a rogue burger was an unavoidable fact of life which the brothers reluctantly accepted.

But Sam knew that, whatever this was, it was a whole lot more than a rogue burger.

Dropping to his knees, Sam threw a long arm across Dean's hunched back in a tender gesture of unity as Dean retched so hard and so violently that Sam fully expected to see a dislodged spleen appear anytime soon. His sickly pallid face was streaked with tears, his gaping mouth and chin soiled with a slick glue of bile and saliva. Between each heaving bout of nausea, his whole body convulsed, quaking through harsh, yawning gasps; each melting into a breathless sob which fired a burning, white-hot bolt of pain through his head.

Eventually, the nausea subsided and likewise, Dean subsided helplessly against the solid wall of Sam's support, eyes scrunched closed, his hand gripping his forehead as if his life depended upon it.

"Hur's Sammy - oh, God it hurts ..." he whispered weakly.

The harsh pained sobs softened into a keening moan, and as Sam looked down into his brother's grey, sweat-beaded face, he could see it was clenched into a tight mask of pain.

"Hey bro', is it your head?" Sam asked. Reaching up for the toilet paper, he spun off a length and gently began to wipe Dean's face clean.

There was no response to his question, except for the pained groans as Dean squirmed miserably, flinching away from Sam's touch.

"C'mon man, you're scaring me here, tell me what's wrong," Sam tried again.

"Head," was all Dean managed to force out between gritted teeth, before he looked for all the world like he was about to hurl again.

"Head, hur's so bad ..."

"Hey, s'okay, just relax dude, shhhhhh ... take it easy;" Sam kneaded Dean's shoulder, keeping up the quiet reassuring mantra, although who was benefiting from it most, he wasn't sure. He was just relieved that it seemed to do the trick, as Dean calmed, sinking further against Sam's solid presence.

"Please - light," Dean whispered.

Sam heard his brother's voice, unsure at first as to what Dean wanted; and then the meaning hit him. "Oh crap!" he realised that even though Dean's eyes were firmly closed, the harsh, undiffused light of the bathroom was still hurting him.

He reached up, as far as his long arm could reach, and just managed to put fingertips to the lightpull, switching it off and plunging the brothers into darkness. Now their only light came from the faint amber glow of the streetlights across the parking lot.

"Damn. I'm sorry dude, I should have realised," Sam inwardly admonished himself, but was glad to see that Dean had already seemed to relax a little more in the darkness.

"Seein' stars," Dean croaked; "made me puke."

"Stars?" Sam asked, "have you hit your head recently, and not told me about it?"

Dean wormed back, burying his face into the nook of Sam's armpit as he shook his head slightly, "no, wd've tol' you," he murmured thickly.

xxxxx

Sam was starting to form a picture now. Headache for a few days, flashing lights, sensitivity to light, nausea ... all the signs were pointing to a classic garden variety migraine, and although neither brother had ever suffered a migraine before, Sam had known plenty of people who did, so he had a good idea of the horrible pain Dean must be suffering. He was also aware that they were both sitting on a draughty bathroom floor, and that Dean, dressed only in T-shirt and boxers was shivering violently; something that was definitely not going to help his sore head or his nausea.

"Hur's, Sammy," Dean croaked, his weak voice muffled against Sam's chest; "wan' it to stop."

"It's ok," Sam replied, rubbing soft circles across Dean's back, trying to give him something to focus on besides the pain and the cold; "I think you've got a migraine," he whispered, keeping his voice as soft and as panic free as he could manage; "lets get you back into bed and hopefully you'll be fine by morning."

Dean's head emerged from it's hiding place; "hopefully?" he had partly opened his eyes in the darkness, and Sam could see the panic in them.

Sam smiled apologetically; "sorry dude, sometimes migraines can last for a few days," he responded, "but seeing as you've never had a migraine before, if you're no better soon, I think we should get you to ER."

Dean's head sunk despondently onto Sam's chest, his breathing began to spiral into those same harsh gasps again.

Sam set his hand to circling Dean's back again, he kept up a soothing chant of utter nonsense until he felt Dean begin to calm again. Every now and again he felt Dean's body tense as another spike of pain drilled it's way through his head.

He was confident that his eyes had adjusted to the darkness well enough that he could guide Dean back to bed without incident, but he knew moving Dean was going to be no mean feat. "D'y think you can walk?" he asked gently, knowing that the need to get Dean - and himself for that matter - somewhere warm was becoming urgent; Dean swallowed harshly then grunted something vaguely affirmative.

Seeing no point in delaying the inevitable, Sam climbed to his feet and carefully pulled Dean up with him, being careful to maintain that gentle pressure on his back the whole time. Dean was trying so hard to focus on the soothing touch that he didn't even realize he was on his feet until Sam had them stumbling towards the bed.

With legs like water, Dean leaned heavily into Sam for support, allowing himself to be guided toward his own abandoned bed. The motion was starting to reignite the pain which burned through his head in waves of tearing agony, and by the time they'd crossed the darkened room, Sam was practically carrying his brother, well aware that Dean's breathing had degenerated into that terrible keening moan again.

Dean, for his part, couldn't muster the strength or energy to care. All he wanted was for the pain to stop, and if being manhandled into bed like a friggin' helpless infant was what it took to achieve that then bring it on.

xxxxx

Dean's knees buckled as he felt himself being lowered onto the bed, and as his throbbing head touched the pillow, his moan of pain turned into one of relief.

He began to curl onto his side, but felt strong arms holding him still, then gently pushing him onto his stomach. "Doctors reckon this is the most comfortable position for migraine sufferers," Sam explained softly, carefully cradling Dean's head as he rolled him over.

"Hmmmm..." it was Dean's acknowledgement and permission for Sam to do whatever he saw fit. His rag-doll weak body no longer belonged to him; it was Sam's to do with whatever needed doing. Dean knew that Sam would know what to do, he would make it all better.

Laying flat on his belly, Dean could feel his pounding heart pulsing against the mattress, his head resting in the crook of his arm between two pillows. Dammit to hell if Sam wasn't right. This was the most comfortable he'd felt all night; the spiking agony tearing his head apart had subsided to a thunderous throb, the nausea diminishing along with it.

He was aware, however, that the reassuring pressure on his back had lifted, and he felt adrift without it. Somewhere a million miles away, he could hear Sam moving around, shuffling footsteps, water running, his soft voice saying ... stuff; stuff that Dean couldn't hear or understand. Dean didn't care about any of that, all he wanted was that hand on his back again, that warm, firm touch that he could cling to like a lifesaver keeping him from drowning in a black ocean of pain.

He cautiously cracked his eyes open, and squinted through the darkness to find Sam. Tiny pinpricks of light sparkled and burst on the edges of his field of vision, threatening to revive the nausea. He closed his eyes again, burying his face into the pillow and swallowing back a deep breath.

He could still hear Sam's voice, a white noise somewhere in the background over the the hammering, pounding pain in his head, and took in a sharp breath as the mattress dipped beside him; a faint smile spreading across his face as that much-missed hand took up it's rightful place on the small of his back.

"Dean, d'you feel up to taking some pain meds?" Sam asked quietly, guiding two aspirins between Dean's lips. With great effort, Dean hauled himself up onto one elbow and chased them down with a sip of cold water, taking just enough to force the tablets down his parched throat.

The threatening nausea grumbled menacingly, and Dean gave a couple of convulsing swallows, focusing on Sam's warm hand which had moved up to cradle his neck until the rolling queasiness had receded enough for him to relax back into the mattress.

Sam stood, and pulled the quilt up around Dean's shoulders, returning his hand almost instantly to it's former position on Dean's neck. Letting out a faint groan, partly of pain and partly of relief, Dean tried hard to focus on the long, nimble fingers carding through the spiky hair at his nape, and allowed the comforting sensation to carry him toward a deep, pain-free sleep.

"Than's 'mmy," he managed to murmur, the edges of his words dulled by pain and fatigue.

xxxx

Wakefulness rolled over him slowly. He was aware of a faint aching tightness around his head, but nothing that he couldn't cope with.

"Hey, dude;" he familiar voice was close and reassuring.

Dean tried to open his eyes, but they felt as if they had been nailed shut, so he just burrowed down into the bed and lay there, sprawled across the mattress and enjoying the sensation of not being in indescribable agony.

"That's it, time to wake up now," Sam coaxed gently, lowering himself onto the side of the mattress; "open your eyes man."

And there it was, that hand on his neck again; softly kneading, encouraging him back to the land of the living.

With much groaning and huffing, he managed to haul himself up onto his elbows, and cracked his eyes open slightly, blinking back stinging tears against the dull half-light of the unlit room, drawn curtains providing a blue shield against the daylight.

As his eyes focussed, the first thing he saw was Sam's smiling face, the second thing was a glass of water which Sam thrust into his hand.

"Whass' time?" he mumbled hoarsely.

"Six thirty," Sam replied quietly.

"In the morning?" Dean's sleep-crumpled eyes widened.

"No," Sam snorted, "in the evening; you've slept for eighteen hours straight, dude!"

"Oh!"

Sam smiled, "how're you feeling?"

Dean took a cautious sip of the water, and licked his dry lips; "better," he croaked, "lot better."

"Good," Sam looked genuinely relieved; "I called the walk-in clinic downtown while you were asleep and they said it sounded like a standard migraine, but as it was the first time you've ever had one they also said if you weren't much better when you woke up, I was to get you to ER."

Dean took another timid sip of the water and nodded, rubbing his neck.

"Any pain?" Sam prompted.

Dean considered for a moment, flexing his neck and shoulders stiffly; "jus' a ..."

Sam shuddered; "Dean, please don't say 'just a headache'."

xxxxx

end


	7. Dreading the Dawn

DREADING THE DAWN

Dean is afflicted with a dreadful supernatural illness. Sam's there to help him through it - whatever the outcome.

Hopelessly sappy, relatively plotless hurt/comfort - sorry!

xxxxx

_For one sun and moon the body burns_

_At breaking dawn the fever turns_

_One way to bring life to an end_

_Or else withdraw and slowly mend ..._

xxxxx

Sam wearily scraped a hand over his face; his crushing fatigue pressed like the weight of the world upon him, but sleep wasn't even an option tonight.

He wasn't a fool. The incantation didn't take a lot of deciphering, and the 'witch-blight' that Dean had been infected with as an act of pure spite by their latest quarry meant that this could be the brothers' last day together.

The whole horrible business was out of Sam's hands. There wasn't a thing he could do about it; all he could do was wait it out across today and tonight and hope against hope that the dawn brought the outcome he desperately wanted; the outcome he needed.

xxxxx

The hand he grasped was cold but clammy; it's grip weak, but at the same time, desperately tight.

Sitting on the side of the bed, Sam stroked the back of the hand with his thumb, trying to provide Dean with a trace of comfort through the fog of fevered pain.

The tremors that racked Dean's body were strong enough to shake the entire bed. Throughout it all Dean fidgeted and fretted weakly, repeatedly kicking off the bedclothes that Sam patiently pulled back over him, teeth chattering painfully and bloodlessly grey lips working soundlessly as his delirious mind tried to voice his distress through the agonising chills and burning torment that the fever wrought.

Sam gently pushed away strands of damp hair which clung to his brother's sweat-soaked forehead, and ruffled Dean's hot scalp; "hey dude" he smiled unconvincingly, "you're gonna be alright, you ain't gonna let that skanky witch get the last laugh, uh?"

He swallowed heavily, and took a deep breath to compose himself; "when we're back on the hunt, you've got to kick her ass into next week man, okay?"

Dean shifted slightly, taking in a deep shuddering breath, and Sam didn't try to hide his smile as glassy, fever-glazed green eyes fluttered open, staring sightlessly up toward Sam out of deeply sunken, charcoal grey smudges.

A solitary tear slid down the side of Dean's pallid face, and Sam gently thumbed it away, trying to hide his own distress. He would never get used to seeing Dean like this; stripped of his fearless hunter's disguise. Without his aggressively spiked hair, bulky over-shirt, heavy hunters' boots, cowboy swagger and hardass smirk, he looked exactly what he was; desperately sick, scared and in intolerable pain.

If this was to be the end of everything, Sam didn't want to remember his brother this way. The very thought tore him apart.

xxxxx

He pressed a cold, damp facecloth against Dean's flushed face; "shhh, take it easy dude…" he whispered, squeezing a clammy shoulder that felt at once both deathly cold and burning hot.

A painfully strong shudder tore through Dean's body as the cool facecloth guided by Sam's skilful hand travelled down his sweat-soaked throat to his burning chest, and an involuntary gasp of pain escaped between his pale, dry lips; but his glassy eyes remained latched, unblinking, onto Sam.

Looking down, Sam wiped a haze of tears from sore eyes, burning with fatigue, and studied his brother's face; his neat, dark eyebrows, his high cheekbones, the faint cleft in his chin, the splash of his freckles, pale and grey across the bridge of his nose and lost beneath the burning flash of fever across his cheeks. All things that had been there plain as day in front of Sam every single time he looked at his brother; all the things that he had never seen before.

Dean had such long eyelashes. Sam had never noticed them; why in hell would he? It's not the kind of thing brothers noticed about each other.

But now he couldn't stop looking at them. He made a mental note to tease Dean about them if … Sam corrected himself angrily … when he recovered.

xxxxx

Through the night Sam sat; never leaving Dean's side, maintaining a cooling, reassuring touch, freshening Dean's bonelessly weak body, soothing him through delirious fever-fuelled nightmares, monitoring his blazing temperature and coaxing him to drink when he appeared lucid enough to be able to do so.

He had no idea how long he had been sitting there when he noticed the first creeping light of dawn casting a ghostly highlight across Dean's glistening cheekbones.

Trying to bury a creeping sense of dread, Sam's cool hand found the back of Dean's neck and began to gently knead the bony prominence of his nape, as much for his own reassurance as for Dean's. His heart sank when his brother's silent, pain-tightened face registered no reaction.

The eyes remained closed, those long lashes remained pressed against damp cheeks, still flushed with the heat of the fever; stuttering breaths carried the occasional harsh murmur.

Dean's fretting and squiming had stilled. Was that a good thing? Sam didn't know.

Sam's head bowed, and the strength he had forced himself to show throughout the last twenty-four hours began to wane; he felt the tears starting to sting

… _At breaking dawn the fever turns …_

Please, this can't be the end; don't let me lose Dean. Not this way; not ever.

Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath,

And another …

Then another …

_... One way to bring life to an end ..._

The very thought choked him.

xxxxx

When it happened it was sudden and completely unexpected.

"S'mmy?"

The voice was hoarse and broken; a barely audible whisper carried on a pained sigh.

Sam's eyes snapped open with a joy he didn't dare to feel.

"Dude?"

"S'mmy?"

"Hey dude," Sam's grin broadened, he couldn't bring himself to hope this was the end of their ordeal; "what's up?"

Dean blinked, swallowing harshly and grimacing as his dry throat burned.

"I'm famished."

xxxxx

_... Or else withdraw and slowly mend ..._

end


	8. Stoned

STONED

Rated T for Dean's naughty mouth.

An expansion of my drabble of the same name. Dean's having some rather unpleasant problems in 'that' part of the world.

A long-overdue birthday story for the lovely Vanessa Sgroi. Sorry, it's late my friend (or perhaps you could just think of it as VERY early for next year ;)

xxxxx

The diner's mint green décor was fresh and coolly relaxing; just the tonic the Winchesters needed as they enjoyed a prolonged period of inactivity.

The supernatural world appeared to be having a bit of downtime. Not that the brothers minded in any way; a series of arduous hunts over previous weeks had left them both battered and bruised in both body and mind, and the brief hiatus was extremely welcome. Dean, in particular had seemed uncharacteristically keen on extending their period of rest for the foreseeable future.

A companionable silence had settled between the two men as Dean, having just worked his way unusually slowly through half a stack of pancakes, sat back in his chair with a deep sigh and wiped his mouth across the back of his hand.

"Hey Sam?"

Sam savoured a long sip of his apple juice; "yeah?" he responded idly, gazing out of the window at the hazy morning sunlight.

"My piss is a funny colour."

Dean barely blinked as his brother sprayed a generous mouthful of apple juice across the table.

"Excuse me?" Sam spluttered, wiping watering eyes.

"My pee," Dean confirmed, enunciating the words as he dabbed droplets of apple juice off his sleeve with a napkin; "it's a weird colour."

"What sort of colour?" croaked Sam, wheezing through the stray apple juice flooding his windpipe.

"Kinda pink."

Sam pushed his glass to one side with a grimace," the golden liquid within destined to remain untouched; "that doesn't sound good," he speculated.

Dean shrugged casually; "don' know, m'not a doctor."

"Well, how're you feeling?" Sam asked cautiously, the worry wheels in his mind beginning to turn slowly.

"Okay, I guess," Dean began evasively; "well, kinda … I think … um, don't really know," he hesitated as his reply began to run out of steam.

Sam's brow furrowed; "and … that means?"

Dean frowned.

"Feel like crap Sammy," he eventually volunteered with a defeated slump of the shoulders.

Sam stared at him levelly. "Define 'crap'," he wheedled slowly and carefully, determined to get to the truth, even if he had to waterboard it out of his brother.

Dean shrugged, and took a listless sip of cold coffee; "back aches like a bitch," he grumbled, "I thought it might be some old injury actin' up, but it's not, it's in the wrong place; too low and kinda … deep, feels like it's in my belly sometimes." He paused, "oh yeah, an' when I take a leak, nothing happens."

Sam's brow furrowed; "what d'y mean, 'nothing happens'?"

Dean snorted irritably, "what d'y think happens when I take a leak? I don't dive down the friggin' U-bend and come up in Narnia," he huffed impatiently; "when I take a leak, I piss like a racehorse Sammy."

Both brothers' cheeks coloured slightly as they watched the elderly woman sitting behind them get up with a disgusted frown and take her coffee over to another table. Dean leaned forward so that their foreheads were practically touching and lowered his voice to a whisper; "but now - _nothing _comes out, hardly anything; just a few drippy squirts an' it's freakin pink!"

Sam was beginning to seriously regret his quest for more information.

"Dean, you gotta see a doctor," he coaxed.

Dean huffed in exasperation; "perhaps if I jus' drunk lots of fruit juice or something it might go away?"

Sam shook his head. "Dean, pink pee and drippy squirts are SO not good signs. You're seeing a doctor."

Dean slumped in his seat with a long sigh and nodded reluctantly.

"Aw crap," he groaned; "c'mon then, let's get it over and done with." He stood abruptly and snatched up the Impala's keys before Sam got any freaky ideas about driving.

xxxxx

Dean stood, feet splayed, staring intently at the bark of a large cedar tree through watering eyes.

How the hell could this be his third toilet stop? They'd only been on the road forty-five minutes. He wouldn't have minded but in all those stops, he hadn't passed enough to fill a shot glass, and the pathetic amount he had managed to expel had felt like he was passing freakin' razor blades. He arched his back against an aching pressure which had been building there, kneading the muscles just above his butt with his free hand.

He tried to relax and think nice thoughts as he pointed pecker at the tree's roots and waited for the action, such as it was, to begin. He thought of cool beautiful gushing water; he thought of Niagara Falls, Old Faithful, Lake Superior, Amazon Delta … instead, what he finally got looked more like the steaming tap of a cappuccino machine.

What was worse, he just knew that Sam, far from respecting his privacy, would be sitting in the Impala watching him like a hawk, and he felt his shoulders bunch as stage-fright took hold. His back arched again as the depressingly familiar ache intensified and spread, deeper and stronger until a searing pain gripped his side like icy claws, clenching the muscles there until his legs were shaking so hard he could barely remain upright and he just knew he was listing like a drunk.

At the end of five frustrating, agonising minutes of trying, he had nothing but a small damp patch on the toe of his boot to show for his trouble.

Sam's concerned eyes followed Dean's every move as he eased himself timidly back into the car. Red-faced and sweating, he curled up miserably, concentrating hard on trying not to puke. He didn't even notice that Sam had shifted over to the drivers' side.

xxxxx

The glass doors to 'Cedar Springs' Medical Centre swung open as two figures emerged.

"Kidney stone?" Dean snorted, "freakin' goddamn kidney stone?"

"I've just had some freak in a white coat mauling me about for fifteen minutes to tell me I'm gonna pass K2 next time I take a leak?"

Sam shrugged; "It makes sense, you eat way too much salt and don't drink enough water."

Dean grumbled irritably, pulling in a deep breath as the intense ache across his back continued to spread deep into his belly.

"I got poked, prodded, why don't these people ever warm their freakin' hands?" Dean moaned ignoring Sam who reached out to steady him as he began to stoop, stumbling rubber-legged over the loose gravel drive.

"Then he asks me to give him a freakin' sample, right after I told him the whole point of me bein' there was that it's got a goddamn knot in it," Dean continued; "where do these people get their medical degrees? Out of a freakin' christmas cracker?"

Sam stifled a smile as Dean's tirade continued full steam ahead. The words bounced off him like summer rain; all he was interested in was the good Doctor's instruction that if Dean hadn't passed anything interesting within two days, then their next stop should be ER. Therefore, Sam had already decided unilaterally, that given they had seen a big hospital only a couple of miles back, they were staying put in this town.

"Then he says drink lots of water," Dean threw his hands up in exasperation; "how the hell can I? Gonna blow up like a goddamn balloon if I can't piss!"

Sam dared to hope that Dean's rant might be winding up.

"Then he tells me kidney stones can be painful; yeah, well thanks for the damn newsflash Doctor friggin' Crippen."

No such luck.

Dean stomped around the Impala and petulantly yanked the door open, still muttering darkly about something Sam was making no effort to hear, when he suddenly froze, stumbling to his knees as he bent over to get in the car.

"Dean!" Sam was round the car and at his side in an instant.

"Oh crap, Sam, crap, Sam, oh jee-sammy shiiiiiiit," Dean was panting, teeth gritted, his flushed cheeks puffing as he fought to bear the twisting, burning pain that had paralysed him where he knelt, leaning bonelessly against the Impala's door. Looming over him, Sam pressed a comforting hand against his shoulder and muttered empty and desperate reassurances.

xxxxx

The motel room could well have been decorated by someone suffering from colour-blindness. Sam was fairly sure that turquoise carpet didn't go with terracotta walls or mustard yellow bedspreads, but it was warm and it was dry and it was relatively clean.

Besides, it was the bathroom where Dean seemed to be spending most of his time.

Right now, however, he was stretched out limply on the bed, laying as still as he could ever remember laying, torpid with painkillers, and afraid to move, almost afraid to breathe. There's no way he was doing that again. That friggin pain? No way Jose.

He could still feel a pain; not tearing him apart from the inside like it was before, just a dull pounding throb from some indeterminate part of his body that he wouldn't otherwise give a thought to. Some obscure midpoint between his left asscheek and his bellybutton.

He could feel it, the sonofabitch; pound, pound, throb, throb. The painkillers that he had been popping like Skittles had only just touched the edge of the pain, and now he had the added discomfort of a painfully full bladder thanks to all the friggin' water Samantha Sadcase had been forcing down his neck.

Sip it, Sam had instructed in that annoying 'Sam knows best' tone of his; don't chug it.

Sam was gonna be freakin' wearing it if he wasn't careful.

Suddenly Dean felt the pain rising again. Biting his lip, he tried to shift a little as if that could have helped, but to no avail. It was coming in waves, each more intense than the last, spreading across his whole back, pressing down on him and filling his abdomen to bursting with a rising tide of pain, burning and clenching harder and harder until he realised he was curled up pitifully on his side, knees pulled up to his chest, both his white-knuckled fists twisted into the comforter below him as he forced harsh breaths through flaring nostrils, scared to unbite his lip because he just knew if he opened his mouth he couldn't be held responsible for the words that came out of it.

He could feel Sam's hand gripping his shoulder, and heard Sam's voice trying to soothe him. It sounded a million miles away, but Dean didn't care, he clung to that voice as tightly as he clung to the comforter.

"Crap, S-sam ... Sa-ha-ham, shi-i-it, oshitoshitoshit … hur's …"

Then gradually, it began to ease off. He felt the waves of pain gradually diminishing to a level which was somewhere in the region of bearable, and finally felt it safe to unbite his lip. He grimaced when he tasted the coppery tartness of his bloody lip.

He knew there were tears, and he knew Sam had seen them, and when this whole damn circus was over Dean would deny it vehemently; blame the dust in the room or Sam's imagination; but right now, he couldn't muster the strength or the energy to give a shit.

Sam's concerned voice began to come back to him; "dude, hell, are you okay?"

Dean knew he should try to reassure Sam, to tell him he was fine, much better now thanks, but all that came out of his mouth was a hoarse growl of, "gotta pee. Now."

xxxxx

Sam reached out as Dean scrambled clumsily off the bed, pain-weakened limbs steadfastly refusing to co-operate, and before he knew what was happening, he was leading Dean toward the bathroom, trying to ignore the fact that Dean was desperately unbuttoning his fly with shaking fingers as they went.

It was a few minutes before Dean emerged from the bathroom, haggard and shivering with fever, shuffling painfully back toward his bed, clothes dishevelled, his fly still hanging open. Sam flushed as he averted his eyes, trying to ignore the fact that Dean hadn't managed to pack everything away.

He looked up at Sam through watering eyes.

"Sucks, S'mmy," he croaked abjectly.

Sam scraped a hand through his hair, "should we go to the hospital?"

Dean shook his head miserably, "doc said give it a couple of days," he kneaded his side with the heel of his hand. "It's easin' off now."

xxxxx

And so began the nightmare.

The next day passed Sam by in a blur. His life played out to a backbeat of the flushing toilet and the sound of Dean's pained groaning which Sam insisted was actually whimpering despite the fact that Dean angrily denied he was even capable of making such a sound.

Dean lay curled up miserably, clutching his vitals and groaning - not whimpering, got that bitch? - groaning in pain.

Back and forth, he beat an increasingly desperate path to the bathroom. Sam was fairly confident that Dean had been exaggerating when he'd announced he was paying his seven hundredth visit of the day, but then he couldn't be totally sure, it wasn't like he'd been counting or anything.

Sam was a constant presence, doing what he could to help and reassure; presenting Dean with painkillers and glass after glass of water (because he knew damn well the stubborn dick wouldn't drink a thing if he didn't have a full glass pressed into his great mitt), each one was received more ingraciously than the last and Sam was sure he had come within a well-timed abdominal cramp of being force-fed the last one, glass and all.

Deep down he knew kidney stones were a fairly run-of-the-mill deal. He knew people got them all the time, but even so; to see Dean suffering so miserably, was heartbreaking and secretly - just a little bit exasperating.

xxxxx

Sam hoped that a combination of time, painkillers and gallons of water would improve the situation as the day went on.

They didn't.

"There's gotta be a spell, incantation – something, anything," Dean begged pathetically.

"Dean, I am not calling Bobby to see if he knows of any spell that removes internal organs."

"But, Sammy …"

"No Dean!"

"Bi … ah-ah-ah-ah …iiitch."

xxxxx

"'m dying."

It was late afternoon and Dean was lying face down on the bed, arm cradled protectively under his belly, his words were muffled into his pillow.

"I'm gonna give birth to Ayers Rock and I'm dyin'," he croaked pitifully; "always hoped I'd go out in a blaze of glory," he sighed; "not sprawled out on a bed, half dead and stinkin' of piss."

Sam sighed as he saw Dean's back clench with another bolt of pain tearing through him, and a muffled whimper - suck it up Dean, that SO was a whimper - dissolved into the pillow.

He placed another full glass of water on the nightstand.

"Hospital, if it's no better by this afternoon dude."

There was the faintest nod.

"Be dead by then."

"Of course you will, Dean."

xxxxx

It was around three hours later, Sam was halfway through an excellent book, when Dean emerged on trembling legs from the bathroom; red-faced, feverish and just radiating pain-fuelled misery.

Sam couldn't deny the fact; Dean looked broken. So crushed by pain and fatigue, he could barely put one foot in front of the other.

Stepping down from his bed, Sam laid a sympathetic hand across Dean's back, an unspoken gesture of brotherly support that was met by a violent flinch; "God no, Sam, n-not my back," Dean gasped breathlessly, doubling over and gripping his shaking knees as if they were threatening to give way any second.

"Hospital dude?" Sam asked hopefully.

Dean gripped his side, kneading the clenched muscle and swallowed harshly, looking for all the world like he was going to hurl, his chest swelling as he sucked in a series of long, harsh breaths.

His hand slipped down from his side to his belly, pressing against the pain, way low down in a part of the world where, as sympathetic as Sam was to Dean's plight, he had no intention of offering any assistance.

Eventually Dean gave up trying to speak, and just nodded mutely.

"Okay, c'mon then," Sam's face lit up in relief as he crossed the room to pick up Deans jacket; "this has gone one long en …"

He turned just in time to see the bathroom door slam shut.

xxxxx

Sam was starting to worry by the time the bathroom door opened and his brother emerged timidly from behind it.

The first thing that Sam noticed was that Dean was walking upright; slowly, cautiously, but upright. Sam couldn't be sure, but there might even have been a watery smile on his face.

"Holy crap," Dean sighed; "look at this."

He took Sam's hand and dropped something into it. In his puzzlement, Sam couldn't quite rationalise what it was he was holding; no bigger than an apple pip, dark brown and jagged; it felt slightly damp.

He rolled it around in his palm absently, studying it curiously.

Then he looked up at Dean's weary but smiling face.

"That's all it freakin' was; hell Sam, I was expecting something a bit more seismic than that!"

The penny suddenly dropped.

"Eeeuuuuuugh," Sam squealed; "dude you are gross!"

He snatched his hand away in disgust, the outraged jerk sending the tiny fragment into orbit, leaving him unaware that it bounced off the ceiling and landed in his bed as he frantically wiped his hands on his jeans.

Dean smiled wearily and flopped down on his bed, closing his eyes in blissful relief; "whatever; make the coffee, bitch."

"And wash your hands first," he added.

xxxxx

end


	9. Uninvited Guests

UNINVITED GUESTS

The brothers' run in with a chupacabra has left Dean scratching his head. Literally.

An extension of a little drabble I wrote about two years ago called 'Infestation'.

xxxxx

"This is freakin' stupid," Dean snorted; "you're wrong, I know you're wrong."

"Just sit still already" Sam huffed, looming over the back of his squirming brother's head, and adjusting the feeble glow of the table lamp behind him; "I need to see properly."

The motel room's one rickety chair creaked and groaned painfully as Dean fidgeted relentlessly under Sam's grip on his towel-draped shoulders. "There's nothing to see," he grumbled irritably, shrugging Sam's hand away; "because you're freakin' imagining it!"

"Dean," Sam sighed, mustering his dwindling reserves of patience; "I know what I saw, and you've been tearing at your your goddamn head for a week, you're making me feel cootie!"

… PYOING!

As if on cue, a tiny black speck sprung out of Dean's scalp and disappeared effortlessly into the carpet.

The owl-shaped clock on the wall ticked across a brief silence.

"What the hell … ?" Dean turned and stared at Sam who tried with all his might to stop the words 'told, you, and so' from tumbling out of his mouth.

Instead, he went for; "still think I imagined it?"

… PYOINK!

Another tiny black speck; Dean's affronted gape widened.

"I haven't?" Dean spluttered; "I have … I've got freakin' fleas?"

Sam airily waved a metal nit comb before Dean's face; "why else d'y think I had to go out this morning and get this?" He asked, his voice taking on a slightly strangled pitch in exasperation.

Dean tugged the towel tighter around his shoulders and harrumphed ingraciously; "I thought it was some wussy hair grip so you could pin your hair back in a bun or somethin'," he mumbled sulkily into his chest.

The owl-shaped clock continued to tick, counting the seconds as Sam manfully fought the urge to rip it off the wall and brain both Dean and his lodgers with it.

… PYOING!

Sam's eyes followed the little black speck as it took an aerial route from behind Dean's ear down to the carpet at his feet, and he took great delight in stomping energetically on that spot.

He was so going to kick their nasty, springy little creepy-crawly asses. As well as giving them payback for hopping the chupacabra and invading his brother (and consequently making his life hell), he equally didn't want them packing up and moving on to pastures new – like his own head. He was going to find every last patch of eggs on Dean's mangy, infested head and scrub them out of existence with that disgusting shampoo that smells like cat pee, and Dean could bitch and whine all he liked.

Sam was on a mission and he wasn't letting up until Dean's head was a bug-free zone.

xxxxx

Shaking his head impatiently, he gripped Dean's shoulder again, and his long fingers parted the unruly tuft at Dean's crown as he set to work with the comb.

Dean squirmed again, ducking out from under Sam's hand; "woah, never mind all the head fondling; I'll freakin' do it;" he reached up for the comb.

Sam took deep breath; that owl-clock was looking mighty tempting.

"Dean, don't be such a dick, you can't examine your own scalp, unless you've got some kind of goddamn periscope stashed away that I don't know about."

Sam was convinced he heard a soft whistling noise as the logic of his argument flew over Dean's head; "I need to try to get rid of as many of their eggs as I can before I blitz you with the pesticide shampoo."

Dean bristled; "YOU … blitz me?"

Sam growled; that owl-clock's days were definitely numbered.

He rubbed his face wearily; "yes Dean, I've got to do it because you can't see the top of that great dense head of yours to treat your hair thoroughly enough."

Dean huffed irritably.

"Of course," Sam continued; "I could just shave it while I'm up here and that'd solve all our problems." To reinforce the point, he reached over to his nightstand where he had left his razor after the morning's ablutions.

"No, no … NO," there was a brief hint of panic in Dean's voice, before he wordlessly admitted defeat, letting out a long sigh.

"Well jus' make sure you don't enjoy it too much when you're feelin' me up; this ain't no friggin' indian head massage."

Sam rolled his eyes as he steered Dean's shoulders back into a forward facing position. "Yeah, okay Dean," he snapped; "I'll make sure not to have the time of my life while I'm dealing with your vermin."

He couldn't help but notice the tips of Dean's ears as they suddenly flushed a fairly nuclear shade of crimson, and suddenly regretted his harsh tone. Okay, Sam finally got it; Dean was mortified that he'd somehow managed to acquire an infestation.

PYOINK!

Oh, these little sonsofbitches were history.

xxxxx

Brooking no argument, Sam gripped Dean's head with a new sense of purpose; to get the job done in the minimum of time and with the minimum of fuss. His long fingers began working their way methodically across Dean's scalp; lifting and separating the hair, and running the comb through it, working swiftly but thoroughly.

… PYOING!

Sam ducked as another little black critter sprang up and disappeared over the top of his head as he stood, working methodically in time with the ticking of the owl clock. His fingertips fell into a busy routine; lift, comb, lift comb … all made much easier by the fact that Dean's testy squirming and sulky huffing had finally stilled.

It seemed he had finally settled his head round the idea that Sam was trying to help and Sam took advantage of the fact; working carefully, determined not to make a scene that would make Dean feel any more cringe-makingly uncomfortable than he already was. Both Dean and the owl clock had earned a reprieve.

xxxxx

Eventually he was satisfied he'd explored and scrutinised every inch of Dean's scalp, discreetly finding and evicting as many of Dean's uninvited guests as he could. It was time to finish the job.

"Hey Dean," he called, trying to keep a sympathetic levity in his voice; "we need to wash your hair, man."

He hesitated when no response was forthcoming.

"Dean?"

"zzzzzzzzzzzz…"

xxxxx

end


	10. He Ain't Heavy

HE AIN'T HEAVY

**Vague spoilers for Season 8**. My vision of the condition Dean might have been in when he came back from the 'P' place.

An extension of my drabble 'Not Quite Haute Cuisine'.

xxxxx

When Dean came back from purgatory, it wasn't just a question of the injuries and traumatic memories that came back with him that Sam concerned himself with; but it was what he didn't come back with that shocked Sam the most.

Sam estimated that Dean must have dropped at least fifty pounds over a year of subsisting on whatever scraps he could scavenge in the forests of purgatory. He didn't even want to think about what kind of gastronomical delights that must have included.

He had also noticed that Dean slept a lot; lack of energy Sam supposed; it was hardly surprising given the physical evidence.

xxxxx

The evening's hazy moonlight glowed across Dean's bare back as he lay face down asleep in his rumpled bed, bringing into sharp and terrible relief the devastating weight loss. His skin had taken on a translucent quality, so thin and bloodless through lack of sunlight and nutrition that in the moonlight's pale glow, he looked like a figure carved from ivory

His shoulder-blades, highlighted starkly against the shadowy contours of his ribs and spine, looked distressingly sharp and fleshless, and Sam, against his better judgement, couldn't help but stare down at the emaciated remnants of the man his brother used to be.

Dean's shoulders, once so broad and muscular, looked sunken and bony, barely able to take the weight of the two diminished arms that hung from them, cradling his canted head as he slept.

Although Dean had hardly ever had an ounce of fat on him, he had never been what could be described as a lightweight. He had always been stocky; Sam had always known him as a strong, rock-solid presence, far heavier than he ever looked.

Craving reassurance, Sam felt himself reach down and brush fingertips along his brother's unfamiliarly prominent spine; a soothing gesture of care and unity. He looked away with stinging eyes, biting his lip as he felt each ridge of the vertebrae, like pebbles along a lonely track.

It wasn't that Dean didn't want to eat; his appetite definitely hadn't left the building. In fact it was as healthy and fertile as ever, but it was simply that he couldn't. His stomach was so wasted that Sam knew his recovery could be set back weeks by one mouthful of the greasy salt-laden crap he had previously shovelled down his gullet with carefree abandon.

A healing diet of healthy, bland nutrition was in order, and not just for a day or two either. The process of rebuilding Dean couldn't be rushed, and Sam had no intention of rushing. He sighed, knowing he was setting himself up for weeks of arguments, sulking, snarking and dragging Dean away from every burger, hot-dog and pizza joint in sight.

It was going to drive him nuts; he'd probably want to strangle Dean at least once every day, and twice on Sundays.

But it would all be worth it. With every ounce gained, Dean would gradually regain his strength, and the great slabbish jerk that was Sam's brother would replace this ruined, emaciated figure in the bed before him.

In the meantime, Sam would long for that day.

xxxxx

He pulled the comforter up over Dean's bony shoulders and walked over to the kitchen cupboard to examine the contents.

Oatmeal, honey, wholemeal bread, orange juice and bananas – that would be Dean's breakfast tomorrow; no cold pizza for the foreseeable future.

Oh boy, this was gonna be fun.

xxxxx

end


	11. Shocking

SHOCKING

Dean's got a problem, Sam's got a plan, but nothing ever turns out the way he expects.

xxxxx

It had been a long two hours; two hours which had started off hilarious, drifted gradually into irritating, stopping off briefly at distracting and which were now hovering somewhere around pathetic.

'_hic'_

Sam stifled a snort, trying hard not to look across the drab motel room at his brother sitting on the edge of his bed with his two index fingers in his ears wearing a scowl that could kill a cow at ten paces.

'It's not _'hic'_ working Sammy!'

Biting his lip, Sam glanced up in the direction of the indignant moan.

"Try drinking some more water," he suggested sympathetically.

"Ah, man," Dean sighed, "If I _'hic'_ drink any more friggin' water, I'll be pissin' like a racehorse all '_hic_' night.

Sam scratched his head absently; his repository of knowledge concerning cures for infuriatingly prolonged attacks of the hiccups wasn't extensive, and so far his suggestions to Dean, which included holding his breath, drinking glass after glass of water and sticking his fingers in his ears had achieved precisely nothing.

'_hic'_

Sam watched in hopeless exasperation as Dean's body convulsed through a series of rapid fire hiccup spasms that left him jerking up and down on the bed like an over-wound clockwork toy.

Dean groaned and kneaded his solar-plexus with a clenched fist, gulping mouthfuls of air into his abused chest.

"This '_hic'_ sucks dude," he gasped, looking up, face a mask of abject misery that had 'kicked puppy' written all over it.

xxxxx

Another few minutes passed while Sam pondered his next move. He'd read somewhere that giving someone a shock could effect a hiccups cure. The problem with that particular plan was that, given their line of work, Dean wasn't an easy man to shock.

Glancing out of the corner of his eye, Sam watched Dean as he sat slumped on the side of the bed rubbing his aching ribs and miserably sipping on his glass of water. His pale grey T shirt stretched across his hunched back and the seed of an idea took root in Sam's mind.

"Um, just slipping outside dude," he mumbled vaguely, opening the door and manoeuvring through it before Dean had a chance to interrogate him. Once outside, he swiftly made his way along the motel's shadowy frontage to the ice machine and pressed the button, releasing a small avalanche of ice cubes into his cupped hand.

Stepping nonachalently back into the room, he was greeted by Dean's glum face.

'_hic'_

It was beyond pitiful.

xxxxx

With his fist full of ice cubes tucked discreetly behind his back, Sam strolled across the room toward Dean, trying hard to arrange his face into an expression that didn't suggest he was suffering third degree iceburn across his palm. "Uh … wanna coffee?" he asked shiftily.

Dean eyed him suspiciously.

'_hic'_

"Yeah … okay," he mumbled hesitantly; "anything's better than any more freakin' water."

Stepping round behind Dean, Sam approached the kitchenette, waiting for the opportune moment to spring into action. It came almost immediately as Dean turned to pick up his hated water glass again.

Sam pounced.

And wished he hadn't.

xxxxx

How can shoving a fistful of ice cubes down the back of someone's T shirt be so damned difficult? Sam pondered that question as he used the same rapidly-melting ice cubes wrapped in a faceloth to staunch the flow of blood from his swollen nose after Dean had smacked it – and smacked it way harder than was absolutely necessary as far as Sam was concerned.

The brothers sat on their respective beds glaring at each other. Sam stewed moodily as his explanation that he was only trying to give Dean a shock to cure his hiccups made no inroads into the older Winchester's sense of wounded indignation There's gratitude for you.

The sullen silence in the room was deafening.

'_hic'_

Well, almost.

xxxxx

Eventually, Dean stood.

Impatiently rubbing his cramping midriff, he grimaced as yet another hiccup escaped, followed up by a pained groan.

"I'm goin' to the _'hic'_ bar at the end of town," he snorted irritably; "you comin'?"

Sam's enquiring eyes looked up at him over the ice pack that soothed his reddening nose.

"I figure if I'm gonna be miserable and friggin' _'hic'_ uncomfortable, I might as well have a good time doing it," Dean explained breathlessly; "and I _'hic'_ get wasted, it might relax me enough to stop this crap, an' if it doesn't, then_ 'hic'_ I'll be too tanked to care, so it's a _'hic'_ win-win."

Sam's eyeroll went unnoticed as Dean tugged the door open and stepped out into the night.

Another hiccup was followed by a horrified gasp loud enough to bring Sam and his throbbing nose running to the door.

"SAM …" Dean yelled; "the Impala … some goddamn no-good douchebag's freakin' scratched her, look!"

Mumbling darkly under his breath about what he'd like to do to the sonofabitch responsible, Dean ran a shaking finger along a narrow three-inch scratch in her driver side front door; a mark so faint that Sam struggled to see it in the dim light of the motel's parking lot.

"Oh, baby," Dean murmured softly, rubbing a reassuring hand over the scarred black paintwork as Sam watched, struggling not to bust out laughing at his brother's pained dramatics because, well, he kinda liked being alive.

Oh yeah, and it wasn't all bad. …

At least Dean's hiccups had finally stopped.

xxxxx

end


	12. Unseen Danger

UNSEEN DANGER

There's an unseen danger in the boys' motel room, and it's not just from the carpet stains ...

xxxxx

Sam stepped out of the Impala and sighed.

After a constructive afternoon's work at the town's pleasantly modern library, despite the frustration of the book he really wanted to look at being unavailable because someone else had already borrowed the damn thing, his sense of satisfaction deflated rapidly once he arrived back at the craphole motel the brothers had checked into earlier.

As motels went, it was skeevy even by the Winchesters' low standards. It didn't appear to have seen a decorator's brush (or a cleaner's mop for that matter) for the better part of a decade, and seemed to be held together largely by rust, mould and unfathomable carpet stains. Yep, Sam's initial assessment of the room as 'downtown cootie central' was spot on.

Add to that the fact that three phone calls to Dean whom Sam had left hours ago, sitting on his bed contentedly cleaning his guns, had gone unanswered; and Sam guessed his brother was either engrossed in watching porn, asleep after a lengthy flirtation with the magic fingers or gleefully enjoying a long shower, with the specific intention of using up all the hot water.

Whatever it was, all the signs were that Sam's evening was not shaping up to be a memorable one.

He sighed again as he cautiously pushed the door open.

xxxxx

"Hey dude," Sam glanced across the room toward where he had left Dean and frowned in confusion at the sight that met him.

Sitting slumped on the side of the bed, it was clear that he had showered some time ago; his thick, unkempt hair was spiky and slightly damp, and he appeared not to have bothered getting dressed beyond his T shirt and boxers. He was leaning listlessly against the wall, his head drooping onto his chest as if he was struggling to stay awake.

Around him, the detritus of his afternoon's work was still scattered across the bed. Partly-stripped guns and oily rags surrounded his inert body, and that's when Sam started to worry. Dean may have been a big kid at times; sure, he liked to goof off and play the clown, but one thing he never joked about was the brothers' arsenal. He knew well enough their lives depended on those guns and he never mistreated or neglected them. In that respect he was always deadly serious.

The realisation dawned on Sam that Dean had never acknowledged his original greeting; in fact he didn't seem to have noticed Sam was there at all.

"Dude?" Sam frowned as he began to slowly approach the bed; "you been drinking?"

This time Dean flinched, looking up in Sam's direction. Sam could see his eyes, heavy-lidded and glassy, drifting softly in and out of focus as he squinted, trying to make sense of where the voice came from.

He mumbled imperceptibly, a sound rumbling deep in his chest, and blinked slowly.

"S'm?" he slurred, the word sounding like he wasn't in full control of his mouth, and tried to push himself up away from the wall, swaying droopily as he did so.

Sam dropped to his knees before him and stared up into Dean's vacant face, clutching his hunched shoulders to steady him. His breath caught in his throat when he noticed the faint blue tinge to Dean's lips and nose; "Dean, you look like hell, what's wrong?"

Dean blinked again, shakily licking dry lips which seemed to make them only drier.

"H'dache," he murmured.

"You got a headache? Is it bad?" Sam asked, his hand moving down to grasp one of Dean's limp hands as he tried to make sense of his brother's strange condition, confident by now this - whatever it was - was nothing to do with something as simple as alcohol.

Dean stared blankly at him as if the question was difficult to comprehend.

"Y'got p-pie?"

Sam looked up into the glassy, green eyes and could see they still weren't focussing on his face; "pie? Dude, you never said anything about pie."

Dean's head seemed to droop again, as if he was nodding back to sleep, but he managed to regain his equilibrium. Licking his lips again, he gazed at Sam from under unevenly matched eyelids, and drooping lashes. "Wan'pie."

"Dean?" Sam squeezed Dean's hand; "c'mon man, forget the pie, you're scarin' me; what about your headache?"

He noticed Dean's chest heaving, pulling in harsh, shallow breaths; pausing to swallow deeply and noisily as if he were choking back a wave of nausea.

"S'mmy? You there?" Dean mumbled plaintively, looking straight through Sam's concerned face.

Sam scraped a hand through his hair as his eyes scanned his brother's hunched body, and it was then the awful realisation dawned. He saw it; on the wall behind Dean's bed.

An ancient, rust-caked water heater.

A poorly maintained water heater in a poorly maintained, poorly ventilated room; Sam's eyes widened in horror as two words floated through his mind.

Carbon Monoxide.

xxxxx

The time for talking was done. Without hesitation, Sam stood, stooping deeply and grasped both of Dean's arms, pulling his brother unceremoniously over his shoulder. Gripping his precious burden tightly, he turned and strode across the room.

Throwing the door open he stepped outside and headed for the Impala. He could hear Dean's quietly confused protests at the rough and undignified treatment, but he couldn't take the time to care as he unlocked her and gently decanted Dean into her back seat.

Winding down all her windows in the hope that the resulting breeze would kick-start Dean's recovery process, Sam jogged back to the room, briefly pondering what to do about the abandoned guns.

In the end, he threw a comforter from the other bed across them, and slammed the door behind him. Later, Dean would probably bitch and whine at such cavalier treatment of his beloved arsenal, but right now Sam had far more important things to worry about.

Returning to the Impala, he climbed into the drivers seat and gunned the engine.

He glanced into the rear-view mirror, seeing Dean's listing figure half-sitting, half-laying behind him.

"Dude, no sleepin' you hear me," he scolded gently.

All he got for his trouble was a muffled murmur, barely audible over the wind rushing across the Impala's interior through all her open windows.

"Dean," louder this time; "stay with me man, talk to me."

Dean murmured quietly; "where'shmypie?"

"Soon bro, pie soon,"Sam allowed himself a smile as he heard Dean stir, and felt his knee bump the back of the drivers seat; "until then, tell me what you know about this job."

There was no audible response.

"DEAN!"

A low grumble was all that Sam got for his trouble.

"Wann'shleep."

"No dude," Sam snapped sternly; "no sleepin', not until we're at the hospital."

"tire...d".

Sam could feel his heart racing; he needed Dean to stay awake but he couldn't watch Dean and watch the road at the same time. He knew that if Dean slipped into unconsciousness, then recovery could be a longer and harder road; he needed Dean to fight.

He watched Dean's shoulders slump as his body listed wearily to one side, and Sam suddenly knew what he had to do; he would have to take advantage of Dean's disorientated condition.

And it broke his heart to do it.

He lowered the register of his voice and spoke; "Dean," he barked gruffly, "you gotta man up son; I said no goddamn sleeping."

Despite the fact that the words came out of his own mouth, the voice sounded so much like John's it even scared Sam.

Dean flinched and gripped the back of the drivers seat, hauling himself into something resembling a sitting position. His glassy eyes suddenly wide with alarm; "yessir; s'rry," he mumbled meekly.

Sam inwardly begged for Dean's forgiveness for pulling such a low trick as he floored the accelerator.

He breathed a sigh of relief when he saw the imposing hulk of the local hospital looming up toward him. At the same time he could see Dean's watery green eyes staring out from beneath his furrowed brow in the rear view mirror. Dean had barely so much as blinked since his 'father' had spoken.

xxxxx

Two hours later, Sam found himself sitting beside a hospital bed containing his brother. Dean lay propped up against a mountain of pillows staring at him from over the top of an oxygen mask, his eyes crinkled softly as he managed a watery smile under the mask for Sam's benefit.

Moderate levels, they had said; moderate levels of Carbon Monoxide in Dean's blood. In real terms that meant Dean would feel like crap for a day or two, but he would recover, almost certainly with no ill effects. Sam closed his eyes and inhaled deeply when he thought about that other book he'd wanted to look at. If he had found that book and spent another hour at the library …

He wanted to find whoever had borrowed that book, and shake them by the hand.

However, until then, he owed Dean the best pie he could find.

xxxxx

end


	13. Heart of the Matter

HEART OF THE MATTER

xxxxx

_beep – beep - beep_

For two long, interminable days, Sam had sat vigil beside his stricken brother's hospital bed, focussing his hopes on the sound of Dean's heart monitor; the only sound he could hear.

_beep - beep - beep_

Nurses came and went through the day and night. They chatted amiably about the weather and what was on TV last night. They carefully measured Dean's pulse, his temperature, and made sympathetic noises as they did so.

But it was all just white noise.

There was only one sound Sam wanted to hear.

_beep - beep - beep_

A doctor stopped by each day, and each day he stood beside Dean's bed huffing and rubbing his chin.

He talked about healing comas, vital signs and waiting and seeing. His words were sincere and his manner curt, as he looked down over Dean through tiny wire-rimmed spectacles.

But Sam was deaf to his words; the man could have been reciting a shopping list.

There was only one sound Sam even tried to hear

_beep - beep - beep_

Orderlies visited throughout the day. They offered food and coffee and brought fresh linen, always with a kind word and an apologetic smile.

But Sam wasn't interested.

There was only one sound he needed to hear.

_beep – beep – beep_

Always there. Steady and constant.

Reassuring.

A lifesaver for Sam to cling to when he was drowning in a black ocean of despair.

A rhythmic backbeat to Dean's fight for life.

_beep – beep – beep _

There was only one sound in the whole world that was better than this one and it was on the fourth day that Sam heard it.

He heard Dean say his name.

xxxxx

end


	14. The Impatient Patient

THE IMPATIENT PATIENT

A harried ER Doctor has a challenging patient; Sam has a challenging brother. Has anyone noticed the link here?

xxxxx

It had been a long shift for ER Doctor Audrey Morrison. She was looking forward to heading home for a night of bad TV and a glass of Californian red when her pager notified her of one last casualty being sent her way.

That was five minutes ago. Now she found herself standing in a cubicle looking at her last-minute emergency, a spiky-haired, grey-faced young man, sitting dejected and uncomfortable with his legs hanging over the side of the padded gurney which was the only piece of furniture within the cubicle.

Fidgeting and shifty, he looked like he wanted to be anywhere except where he was right at this moment. This one was a bolter, of that she had no doubt.

Glancing down at the admission notes, she looked back up to the chalky face staring glumly back at her.

"So, it's Dean, isn't it?" she asked as pleasantly as her weary mind could manage.

"Yeah," he sighed theatrically; "that's right."

"Okay Dean, I'm Doctor Morrison; you can call me Audrey. Now your brother said you collapsed and became breathless while running?"

Dean shrugged; "didn't really 'collapse', jus' 'stopped' then fell over ..." he mumbled

Noting that he wasn't exactly dressed for sport, she probed gently for more information. "What, were you running for a bus or something?"

A mirthless, lop-sided smile spread across his face; "yeah, something like that," he muttered non-commitally.

"Have you ever suffered from asthma?" she enquired; picking up his wrist to measure his pulse.

Dean thought for a moment; "no … don't think so," he replied wearily, making no protest as she placed his wrist down into his lap and gently guided the narrow tip of a thermometer into his ear.

She nodded; "trust me, you'd know if you did – we'll take that as a no." She made a point of smiling her most reassuring smile.

Definitely a bolter, this one.

"Any coughing recently?" she asked as she withdrew the thermometer and briefly studied the reading, her face giving nothing away.

"Not much, a bit," Dean replied evasively.

Audrey had seen this sort of patient before; for 'not much, a bit' read 'hacking up a lung twenty-four/seven'.

She sighed.

"Okay, can you take off your T-shirt?"

She saw a smirk stretch across the grey lips, and couldn't resist a smile in return.

"I'm not trying to get fresh," she grinned, fixing her stethoscope into her ears; "trust me, I'm a doctor."

Waiting, as Dean reluctantly tugged his shirt off over his head, she couldn't help but notice a faint grimace as he did so. The black fabric pooled in a heap on the padded vinyl behind him, and he turned back to face her.

"'Yeah, you keep telling yourself that, Doc."

Still mindful that this one was highly unlikely to stick around, she stepped toward him and, grasping his shoulder, pressed her stethoscope against his bare chest.

"deep breath for me?"

"And again …"

"And again …"

She stepped back, and folded her stethoscope away into her pocket.

"Have you had any chest pain?"

Dean shrugged almost casually; "yeah, had a bit of pain in my right side for a few days, I guessed I'd just cracked a rib or something."

"Well given that there's no bruising, I think we can discount that," Audrey replied; "there's a definite rattle on your right lung, I'd like to send you down for a chest x-ray."

"Oh damnit Doc, what's on your mind?" Dean groaned; "I ain't got time for that."

See, a bolter, she knew it.

"Okay, well you have all the classic symptoms of pneumonia," she began; "you're running a slight temperature, as well as having chest pain, a cough and a rattle on the lung," she could see from unimpressed expression on the the pale, hollow-eyed face that stared back at her that the words, 'but I feel fine' were about to emerge from it.

"Don't be fooled," she added sternly; "that's serious, even in someone fit and young like you."

"Maybe it isn't pneumonia," Dean replied with a shrug.

Audrey nodded in response; "it's possible," she replied hesitantly; "you could be looking at bronchitis or a chest infection – neither of which are a walk in the park," she added; "but the x-ray is the only way I can make a firm diagnosis."

An uncomfortable silence settled for a moment as Dean wriggled back into his T-shirt.

"I tell you what," Audrey announced; "whether it's pneumonia or bronchitis or an infection, I would treat them all with antibiotics; it's just a question of the dosage." She blew out her cheeks in reluctant defeat; "I can give you a prescription for the highest dose; that should cover all bases."

Dean's face lifted into a smile; "sounds cool Doc, thanks."

"But," she added firmly; "I am recommending in the strongest possible terms that if it doesn't clear up by the time you've finished the course, you get yourself to the nearest hospital for that x-ray. Do we have a deal?"

Dean nodded; "deal," he echoed eagerly, hopping down off the gurney.

xxxxx

Sam looked up from his seat in the waiting room to see the cubicle curtain sweep aside, and Dean striding toward him.

"What'd the doctor say?" he asked as Dean marched past, barely breaking his stride to allow Sam to catch up with him.

"Doc says I'm fine," Dean snorted; "and she says you're a big wuss who needs to stop worrying so much."

Stumbling to a halt, Sam watched Dean stomp off through the hospital's sliding glass doors without a backward glance, stifling a cough as he went. He noticed the crumpled prescription in Dean's hand and sighed.

"I wonder if that's a cure for stubborn, idiotic jerkism?"

xxxxx

end


	15. Cold Comfort

COLD COMFORT

A hunt in the depths of winter doesn't exactly work out as planned.

xxxxx

On the face of things, the whole fiasco hadn't been a hunt that would go down in the Winchesters' treasure trove of memories.

Media reports of a cougar offing locals had piqued their interest, especially when the 'cougar' had actually turned out to be a waheela. Following that breakthrough, three days of extensive research into the mysterious creature had culminated in them setting off on a two-day drive up to Maine, and following that up with countless freezing, windburnt hours of tracking the goddamn thing through the crappiest weather that a Maine winter could throw at them.

And when the scabby-assed sonofabitch had finally shown its face - and a fug-ugly, slavering pig of a face it was too - Sam had ended up with a sprained ankle after tripping over a tree root buried under a foot of snow.

It was while he was lying there clutching his ankle that the creature had taken its chance. Before he knew where he was, Sam suddenly had three hundred pounds of waheela chowing down on him.

Dashing in quickly, Dean had used a combination of momentum and his formidable strength, essentially bulldozing the thing away from his brother's prone body. Both hunter and waheela had somersaulted away from Sam, tumbling inelegantly across the ground in a cloud of powdered snow.

Sam had only just clambered to his feet, defying legs numbed by exhaustion and cold, as well as the burning pain in his injured ankle, when he heard it …

An ominous crack; as sharp and clean as a whip through the cold, clear air.

That's when the awful truth dawned; the realisation that their interminable trek through the snowbound forest had led them to a frozen lake; a frozen lake upon which Dean was currently fighting for his life against a pissed-off waheela.

The next thirty seconds had passed in a blur for Sam, as the waheela continued its attack on Dean. Reaching into the waistband of his jeans for his gun; he knew he had no option but to shoot, even as the fight raged on top of the weakening ice.

The shot had rung out, its echo strangely muted by the snow, while around them, the forest had briefly erupted with an explosion of wildlife disturbed by the gunshot. The only other sound had been the squeal of the waheela as Sam's bullet unerringly found its mark.

Seconds later, the creature had lain dead; a crumpled pile of flea-bitten fur sprawled at the epicentre of a spreading pool of crimson.

For several seconds, both hunters had just crouched silently as they stared across the width of the lake at each other, panting with exertion; the sting of the frigid air assaulting their lungs.

Then, with another splintering crack, Sam had watched in mute horror as a jagged breach opened in the ice and Dean disappeared through it with a horrified cry.

xxxxx

Sam's relief was incalculable when it became obvious that the lake wasn't deep enough to carry Dean under the ice. He could see his brother, soaked from his initial immersion, chest deep in the lake's inky depth, clinging with bloodless knuckles to the fractured edges of the ice.

Slithering across the ice on his belly, Sam ordered Dean to grab his hands; a not-inconsiderable task when all sets of fingers involved were frozen numb. However, after a great deal of cajoling, threatening, and swearing, Sam finally managed to grasp Dean's shaking hands, heaving him back out of the lake and onto the ice.

They both lay there for a moment, gasping away their shock and shivering violently.

It was Sam that moved first. "C'mon dude," he slurred through lips paralysed with the cold and chattering teeth which seemed to have taken on a life of their own. "We n-need to get back to the c-car."

With the extreme chill pervading his body, Dean's legs didn't appear to have got the memo that it was time to go. It took far longer than Sam would have liked for the two of them to shuffle on elbows and knees across the ice until he was confident they were both back on solid ground.

Finding a fresh reserve of strength now Dean was away from the danger of the rotten ice, Sam knew his next challenge was to get Dean to the Impala - to warmth - before his body began to shut down from the extreme cold it had been exposed to.

Clumsily hauling his semi-comatose brother into a fireman's lift, Sam set about hobbling back through the forest. Oblivious to the snow that whipped and fluttered around him, and the burn of his protesting ankle; he thanked every power on earth that their trek through the wilderness had taken them on a fairly circuitous route, meaning that Dean's Baby - and their salvation - was only just over a mile away.

As they travelled through the forest, Sam talked; always prompting Dean for a response which was sometimes forthcoming, sometimes not. He talked about whatever vacuous garbage drifted through his mind, and got little more than mumbled grunts and occasional barely coherent grumbles about being 'carried like a freakin' girl' in response, but that was enough. As long as Dean wasn't sinking into unconsciousness, they were winning, and Sam's wrecked ankle would all be worth it.

After what seemed like a lifetime, a very cold, painful and exhausting lifetime, Sam finally spied the Impala's glimmering, snow-caked outline through the frosty, grey latticework of tree trunks that surrounded them in the fading light. He could have wept with relief.

He was shaking with a toxic combination of cold, pain, and exhaustion; face glowing with a sheen of sweat despite the bitter cold by the time he'd bundled Dean into the Impala's passenger seat and pulled his soaked jacket and shirt off. Shucking his own damp jacket, he wrapped it around Dean's bare shoulders, and was relieved to see that Dean was lucid enough to grasp it; numb fingers clumsily pulling it tightly around himself as he mumbled an incoherent attempt at thanks which was lost in the vibrating thrum of his chattering teeth.

Hobbling around the Impala's hood, Sam slid into the driver's side, and cranked the heat up full blast. He knew the motel was about an hour away; he vowed to make it in 45 minutes.

With a stern warning to Dean that any attempt at sleep would be rewarded with a slap, he gunned the engine, and the Impala leapt into life.

xxxxx

Sam actually made the trip in 43 minutes. During their journey, the Impala's heater had worked some magic, but Dean still seemed to be a little ways short of full lucidity, still shivering violently. Sam vaguely remembered something from the first-aid instruction their father had instilled in them, that shivering was a good thing. He couldn't actually remember why, nor did he care; a good thing was a good thing, and Sam would willingly take it.

His positive mood, however, began to wane as he struggled to hold up the full weight of a heavily listing, shivering, great lump of a brother and, at the same time, fumble a rust-caked key into the equally ill-maintained lock on their motel room door.

Eventually, stopping short at dumping Dean back into the Impala, he finally heard the satisfying click of the lock turning, and couldn't help the sigh of relief that escaped as the door swung open with a pained creak.

Depositing Dean on the side of the bed, Sam stepped over to the thermostat and cranked it up to its highest level. He was back at his brother's side with the room's entire stock of towels before Dean had even realised he'd gone.

"Okay, dude," Sam muttered, pulling in a deep breath as he removed his damp jacket from Dean's clammy shoulders; "your baby's done her bit, now I gotta do the rest." He threw the offending garment onto the floor behind him with a wet splat and began to work Dean's belt open, his numb fingers fumbling clumsily at the stiff buckle.

Throughout the whole process, Dean watched Sam work, pure trust shining through his heavy-lidded eyes. Even as Sam hauled him to his feet to remove his sodden boxers, Dean made no move to prevent it.

As he removed each garment, Sam set to work with the towel, drying the residual dampness from Dean's frigid skin, rubbing vigorously to generate some friction. He talked as he went, spewing out meandering, meaningless words that were meant only to comfort and reassure.

Eventually, after working Dean into a clean, dry pair of boxers, he tossed the damp towels into the puddle of wet clothes on the floor and stared intently into Dean's face.

"How y'doing there, bro?"

Dean nodded and managed a lop-sided smile. "Better," he whispered. "Still c-cold, bu' better."

Nodding smartly, Sam stepped back, pulling back the covers from the bed and gesturing for Dean to get under them, smiling with approval when Dean complied without question.

xxxxx

Laying quietly, Dean watched from his pillow as Sam pulled his own T-shirt off over his head, adding it to the growing laundry pile behind him. With it went his jeans, and socks. Dean's eyes followed Sam intently as he limped around the end of the bed, and hesitated momentarily.

"W-what?" Dean mumbled hoarsely as he peered over the quilt at Sam standing beside him rubbing his chin in thought.

Sam shook his head, as if emerging from a trance; "nothing," he replied; "just thought for a moment that I'd forgotten something but we're both here, both alive, the waheela's dead, so it can't be anything important."

Without another word Sam tugged the quilt back and climbed into the bed behind his shocked brother. Tugging the quilt up over them both, he reached out to pull Dean back toward him, gasping as Dean's freezing back pressed against his bare chest.

"Whad'y'doing?" Dean slurred, squirming sluggishly.

"Skin on skin," Sam grunted in reply, reeling his escaping brother in closer. "It's the best way to share body heat."

"S'embarrassing," Dean grumbled into the crook of his elbow but still, Sam noted, burrowing backward into Sam's warm presence.

"Gotta warm up your core first," Sam continued, his calloused palm rubbing warming circles over the expanse of Dean's chest. "Otherwise all the blood will rush to your extremities and then your heart'll give out and you'll die."

"Don' s-sugarcoat it, Mister Sunshine," huffed Dean, trying and failing to wriggle out of Sam's grip.

"And so, because it's kinda useful having you around," Sam grunted into the back of Dean's neck; "I've gotta warm up your core before any other part of you, so you can quit squirming, because I'm not going anywhere, and neither are you."

"Although," he added; "you can keep your icy cold size 12's to yourself."

But despite his protestations, Dean felt himself start to relax. Already the warmth of his brother's proximity was permeating his chilled bones. He found his mind drifting back to a time many years previous when the brothers routinely shared a bed for warmth and comfort. Although, he reflected, he had been the one doing the comforting in those days.

xxxxx

The dawn was creeping over the windowsill when Dean's eyes fluttered open. The room was reassuringly warm, heavy with the kind of moist closeness that results from two warm, respirating bodies sharing the same space and, glancing at his watch, he guessed that they had both been asleep for six or seven hours.

Now that he was no longer a popsicle, Dean wasn't going to dwell on the fact that Sam, in a disturbing state of undress, was sprawled all over his own similarly unclothed body like a two hundred pound duvet; ridiculously long arms and legs wrapped around him like the world's biggest venus fly trap. This night had been an unfortunate necessity. They would never speak of it again.

He wasn't going to dwell on the various minor injuries that they had both sustained during the hunt and its less-than-spectacular aftermath either.

And he sure as freakin' hell wasn't going to dwell on the shocked maid who was, at that precise moment, standing in the open doorway, mop in hand and staring in mute, crimson-faced embarrassment at the entwined bodies in the bed.

"Sam?" he grunted.

"Mmmm…wha?" The muffled response came from somewhere around the vicinity of his armpit.

"That thing you forgot last night," Dean groaned; "it wasn't by any chance the 'do not disturb' sign, was it?"

xxxxx

end


End file.
